


little king

by wearthesun



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Not Episode Related, Post Season 2, Quentin isn't feeling so good, but thankfully Eliot is here to make him feel better, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 17:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearthesun/pseuds/wearthesun
Summary: Quentin was sitting on his own throne and staring at Eliot like he was a Renaissance painting in a damn museum. He could almost picture him in the Louvre, admired by tourists from all over the world.He sighed. Eliot had a whole world at his feet, and Quentin felt stuck in time.





	little king

Sitting on his throne in the middle of the room, wearing clothes so fancy they would have looked like bad cosplay on anyone else but him, soft rays of sunlight illuminating his dark curls, the High King of Fillory looked like he had the whole world figured out. His entire life, his title, ruling a damn country – somehow, he made it look _possible,_ even a little easy.

Eliot wore his crown like he was born to be a leader, as if it had been made especially to rest on his head. He ruled Fillory like it was his birthright – which, fine, in some ways, _it was._ Quentin knew that time in Fillory passed differently than it did on Earth, that the road to this moment had been long and hard, that weeks for him could have been months for Eliot, but it still seemed incredible to him how _grown_ Eliot looked now. Of course, he'd been a king long before Fillory. King of Brakebills parties, idolized by everyone on campus, Quentin included. It had been perfectly natural for Eliot to become High King, it had simply felt _right._

Quentin was sitting on his own throne and staring at Eliot like he was a Renaissance painting in a damn museum. He could almost picture him in the Louvre, admired by tourists from all over the world.

He sighed. Eliot had a whole world at his feet, and Quentin felt stuck in time.

Same old depressed, lonely, nerdy fanboy. He loved Fillory more than anything, always had, and being royalty there had been his life-long dream, even before he knew it existed, but now he wasn't so sure he deserved it. Not so sure it even needed him. Definitely sure he hadn't done a single helpful thing for Fillory since he put on that crown.

And seeing Eliot wear his own title so easily, Quentin didn't think he was enough.

He exited the throne room and left Eliot and Margo to their ruling. Once again, he hadn't been much use anyway, they'd been the ones doing all the talking and problem solving while he was just sitting there feeling sorry for himself. He'd forget what they were discussing not five minutes later.

Eliot didn't wait long before following him. Quentin should have known. Not that he minded terribly – Eliot's company was never something to be refused, even in his darkest mood.

 _Especially_ in his darkest mood.

“Q? What's wrong?” he asked, because somehow he always knew when something was wrong.

“Nothing. I just wanted some time alone.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed Eliot's eyes. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Quentin answered, a little too fast, “I don't mind – I like being with you.” _What?_ He should really think before speaking.

But then Eliot grinned and Quentin didn't feel so awkward anymore. Not awkward at all. He felt like his heart was ice cream in a hot sun. He melted and his cheeks burned red.

“You're so adorable when you're shy,” Eliot said, and in that moment Quentin was _done for,_ and Eliot was slowly walking towards Quentin and for a second he couldn't remember why he was so upset just a minute before.

He didn't trust himself to answer, because his heart was pounding and hammering inside his chest, and he was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to make any sound other than a ridiculous giggle even if he'd tried.

It hit him that they were alone in Quentin's room and the hot sun went fucking supernova. Quentin was sitting on his bed, and as Eliot approached, he gestured towards it, asking for permission to join him, as if he could have possibly said anything but _yes_.

Eliot sat next to him, and he could have sworn the rays of sun from the throne room made it their own personal mission to follow the High King everywhere he went, enveloping him in gold and warmth.

Quentin didn't think he'd ever felt the opium in Fillory's air more than he did in that moment.

“So, tell Daddy what's wrong, Q.”

Quentin hesitated. Expressing his feelings had never been his strong suit, even to Eliot. Maybe it was even harder _because_ it was Eliot. He felt braver when Eliot's rings-adorned hand took his and held it, his thumb softly tracing little circles over it.

“Magic was my home my entire life,” Quentin started. “I wouldn't be alive today if it wasn't for the Fillory books. And when I found out magic was real, when I stepped out into that campus” – he stopped himself from saying, _and I saw you there, waiting for me –_ “it felt like I found the missing piece I was looking for. Like I wasn't wasting my life by refusing to let it go, like everyone told me to. And it was the same with Fillory, it was literally a dream come true.”

Eliot didn't interrupt him. Quentin's hand stayed in his, he never broke eye contact even though Quentin could barely keep it as he spoke and turned his eyes down, and waited for Quentin to continue.

“They told us we were royalty and Margo crowned me and it still felt unreal, but I was happy. I wanted to be a King so bad. And then everything went to shit. Alice died, Julia lost her shade, I killed fucking magic, you were here and I got stuck on Earth, and I never got to be a King and all of that was my fault.”

_And I didn't see you for weeks and I thought I'd never see you again and it was my fault, it was all my fault._

“None of that was your fault,” Eliot said in a gentle voice, but Quentin just raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Okay, maybe some of that was your fault. Not just yours though. We all killed Ember and Umber. We couldn't have known the cost would be magic. And anyway, it's okay now. Alice is fine, Julia's fine, everyone's fine, the fairies are gone, magic is back. You're _here_ , you're a King and – oh my God, I just had the greatest idea.”

Eliot shot up like the bed was on fire, not letting go of Quentin's hand, who he dragged away with him out of his own room. _This is so Eliot,_ Quentin thought – sometimes he just took your hand and led you somewhere, in the middle of a conversation, never telling you why, and his plans were always marvelous.

It didn't take Quentin long to figure out Eliot was leading him to his royal chambers. There was that supernova again.

Quentin had been in the High King's room before, but not for long, and never like this, alone with him, with all the time in the world to stay and explore every corner. Eliot sat him down in a chair that faced a desk, and a mirror, and actually, not a desk –

“Is that a vanity?”

Eliot twisted one of his dark curls Quentin admired so often around his fingers, and asked, with all the pride in the world, “Do you honestly think I wake up like this every morning?”

“Um, yeah?” Eliot made a face that could only be described as _bitch, please_. “I mean, no?”

“I'm fucking with you,” he said, his smile shining brighter than every world's suns. “This –” he gestured from his head to his toes “– takes a village. Or, you know, hours by myself in front of that mirror.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Do you trust me?”

Quentin didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

Eliot grinned. He grabbed a sheet from a nearby sofa and covered the mirror. “I know your first instinct will be to freak out. I'll allow it for one second, and then I want complete silence to concentrate.”

“Um, okay –”

Eliot opened one of the vanity's drawers. Inside, there were dozens of combs, hairbrushes, and various hair accessories.

“El, what the hell –”

“Your one second is up. Be quiet, Coldwater.”

Quentin was, obviously, still freaking out, but he obeyed. Eliot removed Quentin's crown from his head and delicately set it on the vanity. He then carefully wove his fingers through Quentin's long hair and began untying any knot he could found. He worked slowly, gently, taking care not to pull too hard and hurt him, waiting for Quentin's reactions, maybe scared he would get up and leave the room running.

Which wouldn't happen in a million years.

Eliot's tender touches awoke something in Quentin's heart he hadn't realized was there. The supernova that was still burning through him was lighter now, soothing like a warm sun on a late winter afternoon, melting the snow away to leave room for something new, something brighter.

Eliot's movements changed as he took hold of several strands of hair and knit them together in tight braids. Quentin gave up trying to figure out what he would do, closed his eyes, and just let himself relax to the pleasant touches of Eliot's fingers. He felt him place the crown on his head again, braid his hair, use hair ties on several strands.

It lasted an hour, it lasted a second – Quentin honestly couldn't tell. He couldn't have imagined having his hair done – by _Eliot_ of all people – would ever feel this good.

“I'm done,” Eliot announced, “and may I say, you might be my masterpiece.”

Quentin reached out to pull the sheet away from the mirror, but Eliot laid a hand on his arm to stop him. “Not so fast. We need to get you out of those clothes first.”

Quentin was so flustered he could only stutter. Eliot saved him from further embarrassment: “For once in my life, that was not what I meant, babe. Wait here. Do not move and do not cheat.”

He didn't argue. Eliot was gone a few minutes and returned with his arms full of clothes. Quentin noted most of them were black or dark gray, his usual colors – miles away from Eliot's blazing outfits – and was grateful for it.

Rather than handing him, Eliot threw the clothes in Quentin's arms. “This is the most fun I've had in days. Put those on.”

Quentin looked around the room for a place to change. “Do you have –”

“Oh, relax Q, it's not like I haven't seen you naked before.” Quentin blushed so red he felt his entire face burn, so Eliot laughed out loud seeing him, and Quentin's heart exploded with so many feelings at once he couldn't even being to list them.

He was discovering, a little too fast for his taste, that Eliot seemed to have a gift for making him blush.

“Over there,” Eliot said, gesturing to a screen Quentin could change behind. “Mind your hair.”

Eliot gave Quentin privacy while he changed, which he appreciated. As much as he wanted them to be intimate – the very word was enough to sound alarms in his overthinking brain – this was still all new to him. Having Eliot style his hair and pick his clothes was already a huge step forward, in his opinion. An earlier version of him would have thought this was absurd, that he'd feel like a doll being dressed up for a kid's fashion show, but that wasn't the case. It felt _nice_ , being given this kind of attention and care.

Taking care not to mess up whatever Eliot had done in his hair, he undressed, leaving his jeans, t-shirt and hoodie discarded on the floor. Somehow he thought he wouldn't need them again for a while. The clothes Eliot had handed him were all Fillorian, but they weren't too extravagant. There was a long-sleeved, black silk shirt that he could imagine wearing in a fancy Earth party, which he didn't button all the way to the top, leaving him breathing space. The pants were dark gray and fitted him perfectly – not too tight, loose enough that he could move in them comfortably. Over these he put on some black laced boots, which stopped just below his knees. Last, he put on a sleeveless, black leather vest, long enough to reach his waist.

Once he was ready, Quentin stepped out from behind the screen. Eliot was sitting on his bed, arms outstretched behind him, like an artist admiring his work – which he very much was.

“How do I look?”

“You look like royalty.” Eliot got up and circled Quentin, checking every detail of the outfit. He arranged the clothes slightly as he went, fixed the occasional wild strand of hair. He looked him over from head to toe and, satisfied, grinned. He used a spell to make a full-length mirror appear from thin air, right in front of Quentin.

The King of Fillory looked at himself in the mirror and was stunned. This man he saw in the glass – he was him, but he wasn't. He was a King and he looked it, a real King, not like a child playing make-believe, not like the kid version of himself who used to play pretend with Julia.

He was truly a King.

Amazingly, he felt more like himself than before. The clothes felt natural, appropriate for his title, yet not too fancy. He was relaxed in them and, more importantly, recognized himself in them. Eliot had made the perfect choice, which didn't surprise Quentin at all. His taste and talent for fashion were a secret to no one.

His hair looked incredible. Quentin had barely changed it his entire life, often let it grow too long, so what better moment than now? The braids were intricate and in perfect symmetry, some woven directly around his silver crown, holding it in place on his head. Two large strands were tied together behind his head, and what was left of his unbraided hair almost reached his shoulders. He'd thought about getting a haircut days earlier, but was definitely reconsidering it now.

Who knew what other tricks Eliot had up his sleeve?

“Where did you learn how to do this?” he asked, barely daring to touch the braids.

“Bambi taught me. And let me practice on her, after like a year of hard-training. Some days, when she gets too lazy to do her hair, she asks me for help.”

Quentin nodded, more than a little amazed at Eliot's hairdressing skills, somewhat at a loss for words.

“What do you think? How do you feel?”

Quentin smiled. “I feel like a King. Thank you. I love it, I really do.”

Eliot was beaming, because of course he knew he would. This had been his plan all along. “I told you. You're a King, you're here and we're together now.”

Quentin's heart skipped a beat at the word _together_. He wanted it to be true so badly, but still he felt like he didn't belong, like he had no place here. He wasn't sure how to explain this to Eliot. The mirror disappeared once he stopped looking at it. He went to sit on Eliot's bed.

“But I'm not – I'm no use here, El. I wear this crown and you call me King, but I'm the same fuck-up I've always been.”

He would have kept talking, but Eliot interrupted him. “Stop.” Eliot joined him and put his hands on Quentin's shoulders, turning him slightly so he could completely face him. “I need you to hear this, Q. I've said it before and I will say it again and again, until you get it printed on that stubborn brain of yours. You are not a fuck-up, you are not worthless. That's the depression talking, even here. I need you to know this, it is your utmost truth, now and always. You are important, and you are brave, and –”

“I'm not brave.”

Eliot put two fingers under Quentin's chin, raised his head and made him look into his eyes again. Quentin had never noticed before the way they shone golden when the light hit them just right. “Q, no offense, but I wasn't done and this is important, so shut up. You are brave, and you are kind, and what if you're a nerd and you're socially awkward and your brain breaks sometimes? That only matters if you let it.”

“That's easier said than done.”

“I know.” Without warning, Eliot kissed Quentin's forehead, holding his lips there a second longer than necessary. “I know it is. But that's what I'm here for. When you feel like the world is spinning too fast, like you don't belong, or like that crown of yours is too heavy – because believe me, it will be most of the time – you come to me. I'm your living reminder that you matter, you are needed, you are worthy. You are loved.”

Time froze and every world stopped spinning. Quentin focused on this one word, and forgot all other sound but Eliot's voice saying it over and over again in his brain:

_Loved loved loved_

It was a word Quentin rarely spoke or heard, but he felt it strongly, deep in his heart, every time he thought of Eliot. Hearing Eliot say it to him was like being pulled from freezing water minutes before drowning, it was like everything he'd been through, every fucked up shit he'd suffered in his life had let to this.

_Loved loved LOVED_

His vision blurred and he realized tears were forming in his eyes. Eliot must have noticed, because he moved even closer to Quentin and wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight, one hand on Quentin's head, cautiously stroking his hair, careful not to mess up the braids. Quentin held on to him like a lifeline and as he buried his head in the crook of Eliot's neck, he had an epiphany.

Magic wasn't home, and neither was Fillory. _Eliot_ was.

“It's okay, my little King, I'm here. I'll always be here.”

And Quentin knew, in that moment, that he did belong, that he could be more than what he thought of himself, than he could beat every obstacle life would throw in his way. The way Eliot believed in him made him want to believe in himself, so he forced his brain to memorize every single word he had just said, to repeat to himself over and over again until he could truly accept they were true.

_You are important you are kind you are worthy you are needed you are LOVED_

Eliot was his light and his home and why the hell had it taken him so long to realize that? He didn't want to live a second longer away from his embrace.

 _You are brave,_ he'd said, so Quentin gathered every little bit of courage he could find within his heart and whispered the most important words he would every say in Eliot's ear: “I love you too.”

Against his chest, he felt Eliot's heart beat a little faster, and his own match his speed. Eliot broke away from their hug, just a little, so he could cup Quentin's head in both his hands. He smiled and locked eyes with him, and slowly, carefully, bent his head until his lips met Quentin's.

The kiss was shy at first, Eliot testing the waters before he took the plunge. He waited for Quentin to make a move, waited to know if this was okay. Memories of their one night together flooded him. A stolen night they'd shared with Margo, drunk on the aftermath of their emotion bottles, a night that Quentin had buried deep in his brain, ashamed that he had broken Alice's heart, ashamed at how _right_ it had felt even then, ashamed of what that rightness meant.

How could he have been so _wrong_ about something so right?

Eliot was starting to withdraw, but Quentin quickly sealed their lips back together. This kiss was different, more passionate, illuminating, both magicians discovering something new about the other. Quentin grabbed hold of Eliot's curls, playfully twisting his fingers around them, as Eliot's hands explored every inch of Quentin they could reach. They only broke away when they needed air, never letting go of each other.

It wasn't long until the carefully chosen clothes and lovingly braided strands broke free, but lost in their own private supernova, neither of them cared.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea of Quentin looking like the King that he is, embracing his title, and Eliot helping him, and it got away from me. This show and this ship have ruined me!  
> This is my first time finishing a fic in forever, I owe it all to them. I'm obsessed and I don't even care.  
> Thanks for reading! English isn't my native language, please don't hesitate to let me know if you spotted any mistakes. Kudos and comments are always appreciated ♥


End file.
